What a way to begin the year, on the
backside of the paper. Could this be an omen? I don't dare to
guess.

I could write an extremely sentimental
essay on "Reflections of the Passing Years". Such an
old man like myself could surely donate a bit of wisdom from
experience. My 17 years on this planet have not been completely
devoid of happenings, but, then, they've not been packed tight
with them either.

In Innocents Abroad Mark
Twain makes fun of all the people on the ship who had made a
point of making a journal so to preserve
the memorable moments of the trip. The voyagers were almost sure
to forget the journal as soon as their fascination with their
own writing began to wear off. What I'm trying to say is that
the same is happening to me. There's really very little to talk
about, now that I'm several months out to sea. My problems make
for very dull reading, and it seems that's all I'm ever thinking
about. Goodnight.

January 2, 1968

Tedium. That's a marvelous word which
I don't think I've ever used in this before. It's a wonder because
it is a perfect description of most of my time. That is, any
time other than right now. I'm busy with the homework that's
due for tommorrow. I'll probably be up 'til midnight, but I deserve
it.

January 3, 1968

School began today. It was a terrible
day. I spent it going from class to class and worrying about
a certain something. I'm going crazy. Things are to big and the
Institution has a wall of lead around it. It's impossible to
break into, if you know what I mean.

We've been working on a jigsaw puzzle and
have finished it today. The whole family has contributed to it.
It took quite a while because nobody has had time to sit down
with it. We just walked by and put a piece in if we could. Its
an abstract painting and doesn't mean anything, but it's colorful.
Maybe I'll hang it on a wall someplace.

Thursday. I don't hate school all the
time, just once in a while. There are times when I just can't
wait to get back into the classroom, and there are others when
I get sick of the thought of it. It has a lot to do with what
I think the teacher thinks about me, and it changes from day
to day. It might sound stupid but that's how it works. I can't
honestly say that there is one teacher I don't really like. Of
course, I have to rant and rave about them but that's only social
garbage. I'm just talking about this because I don't have anything
to say. The night is running short and so is my supply of sleep.
Bon Soir.

January 5, 1968

What a hell of a day this has been!
An inventory of my present situation shows that my dad is mad
because I dented the car a little, you can hardly see it but
its still there; the other car wasn't damaged, except for some
scratched paint that I couldn't see in the darkness but I don't
think there was any damage at all; (I'm getting tangled up in
this sentence so I'll break a few grammar and punctuation and
structure rules and start a new sentence.) The big deal about
the car is that very little was damaged besides my ego.

The car is just one of my many problems.
If I didn't have problems these pages would be blank. I've got
to get me off the subject of me, although I've got to admit it's
fascinating.

What else happened today? Well, I got
hung-up, pushed down, rolled over, stepped on, and wrung out
the usual amount of times. Other that that, nothing.

My sister said she visited Fr. Gerry
at the hospital today. I've
got to go see him myself one of these days. I owe him a lot,
in many different ways. He's great. His class is usually just
a bull session, but it's like a bright candle on a foggy day.

My friend, Linda from the library, turned
in my name to Sr. Rochelle at St. Francis as a "possible"
for the musical. It's not that I don't want to be in it; I just
will not accept some little "ornamental" part. I dislike
feeling like some inanimate prop, and that's what Sr. Rochelle
does to me. She is the epitomé of all that I hate in nuns. My job keeps me from being in the play also,
but its minor. I might say more about this tommorrow seeing that
it concerns two of my favorite subjects, myself and acting. Right
now it's bedtime. Goodnight Mrs. Calabash, wherever
you are.

January 6. 1968

Saturday. I got up, went to work, loafed
around on the job, came home at five o'clock, did my homework,
ate dinner, and here I am. I don't feel very inspired. I'm beginning
to feel the pressure.

Sr. Rochelle is a self-righteous, patsy
of a nun. Were she not dressed in her habit I'd have her turned
in as a con-man because that's just what she is. She pleads and
cajoles, and when you agree, she denies your existence. Thank
God I'm not a woman; then the only means open to me would be
to become a nun. In my thinking, there is no level of comparison
between nuns and priests. Why am I beating this dog? Because
I feel like it. I can't condemn people very well. The sarcasm
just isn't in the right places. But I'm learning quickly. I read
a poem by Langston Hughes the
other day. Take it for what it's worth.

I could tell you if I wanted to/what
makes me what I am/

but I don't really want to/and you don't
give a damn.

January 7, 1968

Rochelle called today. She almost convinced
me that I should go out for the play, but when I mentioned that
my job and school keep me very busy she got snippy and that was
that. I got very angry but didn't blow my cool. I just went along
with her and attempted to end the conversation as soon as possible.
She has a "squeeze" method on the telephone. She asks
a question she knows I can't or won't answer and the barren silent
period of three or four seconds forces mer victim into saying
something. I said, "I'm sorry Sr., but I'm pretty busy right
now. I'll think about the play." She said, "Allright
but I'd better see you there." I said, "Uh-huh, goodby."
and hung up. I could be arrested for what I really wanted to
say. But "typical good little boy" me didn't do a thing
that wasn't 100% proper. I'm ashamed of myself. I had my chance
and blew it, but I'm sure there will be many more. God knows
I'd like a good part in the play, but He also knows I haven't
got a chance with Sr. Rochelle casting it. She uses

The only reason she called me was to
find another "great damn fool" to play the fall man
in her production. When I go on the stage, if I ever get there,
I want to feel like a person, not a kitchen table or throw rug.

By now I could have used a billion exclamation
points, but I haven't. I have an aversion in my writing to any
extraordinary flash of emphasis, besides Sr. Rochelle isn't worth
the extra ink.

January 8, 1968

My days are becoming very unreal. Sometimes
they are nightmares and other times they are just vague caverns
in the eye of abstraction. In other words they're weird. Things
aren't so simple anymore. I'm playing for keeps now. I've been
thinking about the seminary, wondering what it's like and if
I'll ever get there.

I'm trying to catch Fr. Finian in the
Careers Room but it's never open. I've got to find out about
applications for Mt. Carmel. When people ask me where I've applied
for college my heart shrinks inside me. I know I should have
begun this at least a month ago, but I haven't really been sure
of myself. I can't just sit back and think everything will fall
into place because I'm the only one who could possibly know where
the pieces fit. I've got to take what they call "positive
action". I'm feeling very typical tonight.

Judy Collins is playing
now and everything is quiet. I like it this way. It gives me
time to think about things. I've written a ridiculous poem about
things. It stinks but I need something to occupy my time.

You know there are many
things in the world.
Yesterday I must
have bumped
into at least thirty of them.

We have all encountered them
in dark alleys or on the
golf course.

Strange, that the food we eat
contains thirty percent
fewer things
than the food which

is discarded and placed
before
the god of insane poets
and garbagemen.

After reading it a few times it becomes
totally irrelevant to everything. It's junk, but I wrote it so
I can't destroy it. I'm very vain. Of course I really think it
has some value, and I guess that's all that matters.

"Chanson Innocente" by e.e. cummings is undoubtably
one of the most beautiful poems of the twentieth century. Goodnight,
mon auditeur.

January 9, 1968

Tuesday. I worked until nine at the
library. Typically nothing, typical boredom.

I found out today that Central is putting
on "Funny Girl". It never fails. When St. Francis finally
gets a play someone has heard of, Central or West top it with
some block-buster. Last year St. Francis had "Cindy"
(?); Central and West pop up with "My Fair Lady" and
"West Side Story" respectively. I'm listening to the
record "Funny Girl" right now and I think I've discovered
the reasons for all of this. 1) Lack of money - public schools
naturally have more money, but that doesn't mean SFA can't attempt
some "artsy" low-budget show, such as "Stop The
World, I Want To Get Off". 2) Lack of talent - SFA just
doesn't have it. Male leads are too hard to find because there
is seldom a role which requires any extraordinary amount of talent.
The character of Nick (in "Funny Girl") requires only
the ability to smooth out a few notes and keep them moderately
low. However, if SFA tried out every girl in the school it could
not find one who could even approach the role of Fanny. It's
doubtful that Central will find an equal to Barbara Streisand,
but they will at least find someone who can hit a few notes.
SFA will be lucky if it can find some very rough duplicate of
a Judy Garland/Ethel Merman combination in one girl. (To qualify that statement
I'll say now that I loathe both ladies.) A Barbara Cooke or Julienne
Cienkowski is a rare occurance; both girls are bound to make
it big, especially Julienne. Both girls have tremendous voices
and a remarkable presence on stage.

I think I've talked enough for now.
Besides I'm at the bottom of the page.

Things on top right now are; 1) application
for the seminary, 2) semesters, 3) SAT, 4)history abstract
(haven't got the book yet), 5) the library.

After I get the application and SAT
straightened out I hope to keep myself above water. I can say,
without joking, the idea of death has crossed
my mind, but timidity prevails and I rot inside. "Do not
go gentle into that good night..." "...death shall
have no domain" and all that stuff. I am becoming sick,
so sick. Things are so big, so hard. Scarlet tape is hanging
from the walls and is slowly devouring me. Depression is not
the word, there is none, no word. I'm tired. Things might seem
trivial to "outsiders" but they're mountains to me,
so big, so hard, so sick. I'll have to talk to my analyst, He'll
tell me all about it, maybe. He's been out of town for a while.
Goodnight.

January 11, 1968

In times of boredom I can always pick
up this book and tell myself all about it. When I've got problems
I can always do the same. But it doesn't work very well. Plaster-white
paper with horizontal lines doesn't respond very sympathetically.
You tell it something and it just sits as though it doesn't really
care. I don't think it does. I put some eternal question to it,
and nothing happens. I prod, and scream, but I guess I'll have
to be satisfied with my own ignorance, because surely this paper
will add nothing.

January 12, 1968

The last day of the week. A history
report is due Tuesday, haven't got the book. Someone took it
from the library without checking it out. I'm in a worse position
than last time, but I'm not going to say much about it. Only,
this time it's not really my fault, but that doesn't help much.

I worked all night. I wish something
would happen to that place; good or bad I don't really care,
just something. It gets so monotonous. The old ladies come in
with their bloated shopping bags and leave with fresher material,
which will be stale again in one or two weeks. It's the same,
the same.

I had a run-in with Wally Dimmick in gym
the other day. He started getting the way he gets now and then.
I tried to ignore him but...He's got the muscle. I tried to find
a word that I could call him, and not lower myself to his level.
I very firmly, but quietly, called him a bastard and walked away.
I think it was a bit effective. The whole gym class saw it. It's
one of the many things that don't bother me at all, and never
happen very often anyhow. Goodnight.

January 13, 1968

"Do not go gentle into that good
night
Old age should burn and rave at close of day
Rage rage at the dying of the light."

These lines have entered my mind and
smashed up the interior pretty well. Like a ricocheting bullet
in a cave. I don't know why, maybe just because I'm down today.
Maybe just because I'm on a Dylan Thomas kick.
I don't know. The big triumvirate in my life right now is Dylan
Thomas, the new Beatles, and Judy Collins. They have a superb
ability to "tell it like it is". Depth is what they
have. They get inside and knock me to pieces. They force me to
think, and I've been doing a lot of it lately.

That poem about things is pretty bad,
but I think it tells me what I want to say. I've written better,
but they won't let me print them again. I mean, they served their
purpose once, and that was all. I'm not a poet anyway. If I had
my perfect wish I'd be a bum who did nothing but think all day;
or I'd be a taxi cab driver. This thing about being a priest
is pretty good too. If people are as confused as I am they need
help. I've got to see if I can help them. But first I've got
to help myself, which isn't easy. I'm looking for something to
guide myself with, other than fear. I want reasons, questions,
and at least partial answers. From my point of view now I don't
see what I could possibly do to help anyone. I've got to find
the questions before I find the answers. Right now my life is
vacant, save for a few phases and traumas. At this
moment I could not possibly "rage against the dying of the
light". There is no light; it cannot die. I'm a naked soul,
stripped down to the dangling nerves of consciousness. I'm floating
in between all things. I'm like the spirit which cannot be hit
by raindrops even though they are falling all around me.

This is getting bad. Tomorrow is a day
of sweat. Sunday is church day. I hope my analyst has returned.
I need him.

January 14, 1968

Not much today. I went to church but
the Analyst was asleep. Only one ear was open and very little
communicated between us. I'm beginning to see that I couldn't
survive without Sunday.

I went back to the CSF library. The
book wasn't there.

The rest of the day dragged by. I watched
television, the Packers-Raiders game.
It was a pretty lopsided game. The Packers had everything going
for them, the Raiders had very little; it was that simple. I'm
not that interested in football, but the game helped me to pass
a dreary afternoon.

I'm not really looking forward to school
tomorrow, but I guess it's got to come.

January 15, 1968

Monday. School. Suffering.

I don't hate school, just what I thought
I had to do all day. it took the greater part of the morning
and part of the afternoon to work up the courage to tell Fr.
William that I don't have an abstract for him tommorrow. He didn't
show up for class, and right now I thank God that he didn't.
I found a huge article on the book and used it as a base. I've
got to get to work on it now. Goodnight.